We had dropped into Pierrot’s for dinner-Plerrot’s, that quaint French restaurant where the waiters speak nothing but French. Jack Lejeune, who boasted a smattering of French, volunteered to act as interpreter. “Now ‘tell me what you want to eat,” announced Jack grandly, after we were seated, “and I’ll ‘parley’ with the waiter.” With halting French phrases and much motioning of hands, Jack translated our orders to the waiter. Finally Jack turned to me. “What’s yours, Fred?” he asked. “Virginia ham and scrambled eggs,” I replied. Jack’s face fell. He knew that my order would be difficult to translate into French.